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Desperation Bakehouse

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Desperation Bakehouse

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Desperation Bakehouse is the creation of chef and baker Steven Feuer, a graduate of Harvard University, Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and the San Francisco Baking Institute. Our unusual name was inspired by American frontier history, and images of hearty pioneer bakers and gold-rush entrepreneurs setting up shops in tents and makeshift storefronts in the rustic Sierra Foothills. Surviving in the lawless

frenzy of gold-rush fever, intrepid cooks and bakers used thrift and imagination to feed folks desperately hungry for a little respite and the comforting taste of home.

03/15/2014

What's Really Real? Thinking about LA

At the start of the new year, I had the opportunity to play tourist in former home town Los Angeles.
My partner and I stayed in a downtown hotel, and I thoroughly enjoyed the gritty Downtown (with a capital D) perspective – far different from the odd suburban/urban mix of the city’s Westside. In the morning we headed down the stairway of Angel’s Flight (alas the century-old funicular was closed for repairs) into Grand Central Market. This marvelous piece of vintage LA has served its downtown neighborhood for at least a hundred years. Sawdust coats the floors, and stalls glow with glorious old-fashioned neon signage.

But Grand Central Market is changing. In a process very familiar to us San Franciscans, it’s gentrifying and foodie-izing. Mixed in with the “traditional” butchers and produce hawkers catering mostly to their Latino neighbors, are new additions: a fancy coffee pour-overer, an artisan cheese monger, at least one trendy pastry stand, a hip BBQ setup, a food-truck-turned-groovy-egg-based-diner, and several other modern additions in process. It’s all great to see – high quality food and drink for an expanding young-and-hip downtown dwellership. But I kept asking myself, what’s “real” and what feels like a put on? This is a complicated question in multilayered LA. There were vendors here long before Broadway became the center of a Latino community, so the non-Latin stalls shouldn’t feel out of place, should they? As with all urban food locations with a rich heritage, Grand Central Market should be allowed to transition, no? Some locals are concerned about all the (relatively) pricey trappings of gentrification popping up all over Downtown. But the Ace Hotel chain’s refurbishment of the glorious United Artists movie palace down the street can’t possibly be a bad thing, can it? Can the old and new exist side by side, with no losers? So much food for thought.

03/11/2014

Of Life, Lemons, and Pudding Cake

Needed a break from dealing with health issues, and my good friend Elizabeth came to rescue with an armful of fresh-picked Meyer Lemons from her front yard. Elizabeth is somewhat famous for her lemons (I try to avoid the obvious moniker Liz Lemon) and they do indeed have that extraordinary orange/lemon floral scent that fresh Meyer Lemons give off.

I’ve been meaning to try a recipe for Lemon Pudding Cake, and this sudden bounty was a great excuse. If you haven’t tried a citrus pudding cake, it’s shear magic: a single batter separates in the oven into two distinct parts – a souffle-like cake on top, and an intensely-flavored pudding on the bottom. This particular one was a winner, with a lightly-browned crust, fluffy interior, and spoonable creamy pudding underneath. And the flavor of that pudding announced “Meyer Lemon” with every ultra-lemony bite.

12/30/2013

A Story for the End of the Year

This year has had its definite ups and downs, but I wanted to close out 2013 with a little something that gave me a lot of pleasure.

Back in the fall of 2012, I had posted an odd coincidence: a box of photographs I’d found at the Alameda flea market, most over a hundred years old, matched a location called “Shingle” (now Shingle Springs) in California’s Gold Rush country. In an unrelated moment, I’d searched for place names in the US called “Desperation” and Shingle Springs happened to have one of only two roads in the entire nation called Desperation. We thought that was both charming and eerie, as coincidences go.

Well, it gets even better. A Shingle Springs family who actually owns much of the property of Desperation Drive, including the very road sign I’d posted, happened to see this Facebook entry and contacted me. Finally, this fall, I made the decision to let all the Shingle photos go (a bit difficult for an ephemera-nut like me). This family that lives on the ground of the old mining camp should really have them. And they were gracious enough to offer a box of fresh-picked (scrumptious) Pink Lady apples from nearby Apple Hill as a gesture in exchange for the shoebox of group photos, cabinet cards, real-photo postcards, and snapshots. This family is apparently battling for the livelihood of their community, and bits of history like these help bolster their cause. In the end, I couldn’t be happier to let them go.
Here’s to a jolly and fulfilling 2014!

12/22/2013

Holiday Pie and Sitcom Moments

Today am sharing a belated Thanksgiving story.
Was feeling unwell when ThanksaLatke rolled around last month, but I’m the Pie Guy, so headed south to LA with equipment and measured ingredients in tow.
Things did not improve upon arrival at my parents’ place. If I was going to get out of bed, it was, alas, not to make pie.
To the rescue came my brother Bob and his husband Larry who had flown in from Kansas. They offered themselves up as pie slaves, and I sat in a kitchen chair, berobed, dictating pastry dough commands like a holiday-loving Mussolini.

Every year, Bob and Larry ask for chocolate in their pie, and I say...maybe next year (am a bit of a stick-in-the-mud regarding old fashioned pecan pie). But this year there would be chocolate! – just for them.
Along with the requisite pumpkin, I’d planned a very rich chocolate pecan pie. In this version, melted unsweetened chocolate is mixed into the filling with toasted pecans, fortified with a shot of brandy.
Bob and Larry did a splendid job on both types of pie (I was especially pleased by the crackless satiny finish of the pumpkin).
Finally, time to head to brother Mike’s house for the main event, triumphant with pie success.
This calls for another “alas.”
Greeting family outside the front door, brother B or husband L (I dare not say which), balancing a still-warm pie in each hand, sent that chocolate pecan pie crashing to the concrete – and oblivion.
Is there a moral to the story? I can’t imagine what it would be.
Happy Holidays!

11/11/2013

An Apple Pie for a Friend

A few days ago, one of my oldest friends came to visit from New York City. Our 30-year-old friendship that started in college has continued ever since, weathering some rough patches as well as pleasant times. I don’t get to NYC often, so a face-to-face meeting has become a rare event.
He was going to be staying with me at my home, and I wanted the place to feel (and Smell) welcoming.

Suitcase in hand, he opened the apartment door and the aroma of fresh baked apple pie wafted from the kitchen. Too hot to slice, the pie had to wait a bit before being cut into thick wedges and plated with scoops of caramel ice cream. Happy to report, this was one of the better apple pies I’ve baked – the sugared crust shatteringly crisp, and the apples still bright with tartness. My friend slept well that night, with the fragrance of cinnamon-scented apples warming the air.

11/05/2013

Gold Fever

My passion for California Gold Rush lore brings me back again to the once-raucous hamlets dotting the Highway 49 in the Sierra Foothills.

This past weekend was our third opportunity to visit Volcano – a sleepy village accessed by a curvy mountain road, hidden away from the main highways. The 19th-century St. George Hotel, the true heart of the town, is still up and running, and our “Indian Hill” room, opening up to the third-floor veranda, remains basically the way we remembered it. Charles, the grumpy resident ghost, didn’t disturb, but a wedding party on the lawns below livened things up in the afternoon.

As cliché as it may sound, crisp fall air, two Adirondack chairs, and a sun-dappled veranda are sometimes all you need.

On Sunday, a good farm-to-table breakfast at Jackson’s Rosebud’s Cafe (new discovery!), then up the 49 to Placerville and over to Apple Hill for our annual pilgrimage. There, we met up with friends Elizabeth and Carlos at Rainbow Orchards to wait in line for their famous Apple Cider Donuts. Keeping warm bits of sugar off hands and sweaters is always a challenge, but these light, tender donuts are worth the mess. Home now, but thinking there’s a Rome Beauty apple pie in our future.

11/01/2013

French Apple Cake

What’s custardy, both rich and light, perfumed with rum, and studded with chunks of velvety slow-baked apples?

A friend recently offered a Macy’s bag filled with apples picked from the trees behind her family’s house. I’m saving apple-pie making for a couple weeks, but wanted a baked dessert both comforting and a little unusual. The texture of this cake is unlike that of most American cakes – a hybrid recalling the smooth richness of a bread pudding.

After letting it cool and cutting a thick wedge, I realized a kinship to the French “Clafoutis” – a regional fruit dessert traditionally made with whole (unpitted!) cherries baked in a flan-like batter. The first bite confirmed that this French Apple Cake represented the best qualities of French country cooking – rustic yet sophisticated.

10/31/2013

In Honor of Halloween, a Pumpkin Fest

Autumn makes me sorely miss New England, where I went to college and lived for some years after. California seasons are subtler and less showy – but if you look hard, the rustling leaves and ripe, spiced aroma of fall are to be found here too.

For forty-three years, the seaside town of Half Moon Bay has hosted a festival to celebrate its status as “World Pumpkin Capital.” We decided to pay a visit and were not disappointed. Despite some corporate sponsorship, this is a local affair – the type I love. It seemed that everyone living in the vicinity, including neighboring farms, had participated. And best of all, the food vendors were specific to the neighborhood – each sponsored by a school, a church, an athletic team or community organization, and offering seasonal treats like pumpkin chili, pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin cookies and bread puddings, roasted Brussels sprouts (healthy food at a fair!), and, of course, hefty slices of pumpkin pie within a three-yard radius of wherever you happen to be standing.

After “surviving” the charming haunted house, peopled by child actors from a local troupe (we have stickers to prove it!), we made our way back through the coastal fog and sunny Santa Cruz Mountains, full of pumpkin treats and looking forward to next October.

10/19/2013

The L.A. Paradox

Nighttime and a Chevy Impala cruising east on the 10 freeway, loaded down with ice chests filled with kosher pickles, sour tomatoes, and Greek olives, fragrant pastrami and corned beef wrapped in butcher paper, glistening smoked whitefish and hunks of pepper-cod, loaves of corn rye, challah, onion and kaiser rolls, and perhaps a wedge of raisin-studded coffee cake or a dense finger-length of poppyseed strudel. This is what Los Angeles meant to me as a child growing up about an hour east in the deli-bereft city of San Bernardino.

L.A. was the Fairfax district, my Jewish grandmothers, and old-fashioned Jewish food, stockpiled to methodically savor in the intervening months between trips.

L.A. is a city I love to hate. Having lived there (twice), I was dismayed by the disregard for history that I witnessed. Cultural monuments that another city would cherish were routinely demolished at the whim of developers. The L.A. Conservancy wages battle after battle, but often for naught. Sometimes I think L.A. is a city that ...just doesn’t care.
But on a recent visit south from my current home, San Francisco, it struck me as extraordinary that venerable L.A. food institutions like Canter’s Deli/Bakery, Philippe (home and claimed-creator of the original French Dip(ped) Sandwich), and the Apple Pan continue to thrive, along with the century-old Grand Central Market and ‘30s-era Farmers Market.

San Francisco is different from L.A.
Neighborhoods here rally to preserve heritage. I tell myself that SF is a city that respects food and respects itself – a place I proudly call home. But...something is missing up on our Victorian-studded hills: a True food institution. Where is our Canter’s, our Philippe? –workaday food establishments where history lives – not because someone hip revived it, but because it never went away in the first place. And having said that, I’m really looking forward to my next midnight bowl of Canter’s barley-bean soup and mile-high corned beef sandwich. Extra well-done pickles on the side please.

08/15/2013

Heritage Lost and Found

This past weekend I baked a Hungarian Plum Cake (with fresh local plums!) from The Complete American-Jewish Cookbook of 1952. It’s a lovely lemon-scented cake with a layer of moist sweet-tart plums, and a fragrant cinnamon topping – a nostalgic taste of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, perfect with a cup of coffee. So why did this vintage cookbook come to mind?

My mother (she’s the youngest here in the photo, seated on her father’s lap) had an interesting upbringing in East LA. Her Russian/Ukrainian parents had met on the voyage to America, via Cuba. My very young grandmother had stayed behind in Havana while my grandfather established himself far across the United States, in the young metropolis of Los Angeles. In the 20’s and 30’s, the Boyle Heights neighborhood there housed the largest, densest immigrant Jewish population west of Chicago. Here, alongside large numbers of Latino, Japanese, and Italian families, my mother was born.

My grandfather adopted a pseudo-Spanish identity in the business community (he was a remarkable polyglot), and my mother’s earliest food memories were of fresh-griddled tortillas and other Mexican delicacies offered in the homes of her father’s store customers. She was unsure of her own identity as a child, surrounded by so much international culture. Only nominally Jewish (the family had left any real religious ties behind in the Old Country), my mother could have easily blended into the Latin culture of L.A. in the 1930’s.

When she met and married my father in 1952 (he had grown up in a tight-knit Jewish clan), my mother still had little clue what a Jewish home felt like. One of the first steps was learning how to cook. My paternal grandmother gave a few lessons and hints, and my father bought his bride the newly published American-Jewish Cookbook she owns to this day. My mother dove head-first into Jewish life, and though she never became an avid cook (her many talents lay in other arenas), she did instill in my brothers and me the same deep curiosity in other cultures that she had explored in early East LA.

08/08/2013

Baking with a Friend

This weekend my dear friend Ross visited from Seattle. We first met 20 years ago, both wandering the windy Baroque streets of Prague in the newly minted Czech Republic. It was one of those rare instances when you meet a stranger and instantly feel a rapport with them, like you’ve known one another for ages. On a past visit, I shared with him the fruits of my student labor at the San Francisco Baking Institute (an elaborate Italian Christmas Panettone) - but this time he wanted us to bake something together.

In keeping with my passion for American heirloom recipes, we chose a double-crust plum pie. Why hasn’t plum pie remained in the pantheon of summer stone-fruit treats? Ross picked up some just-ripe plums from a local farmer’s market, and we went to work preparing a buttery pie dough and the juicy sweet-tart filling. While the pie baked, it filled the apartment with the aroma of...home. It seems fitting we chose this fruit, as our Prague anecdotes include many plum-related memories: a public garden where plum trees, heavy with fruit, dotted the lawns; a strange but delicious morning pastry filled with whole (unpitted!) plums; the rare treat of warm plum dumplings drizzled with melted butter. Before saying goodbye, we cut into the still-warm crust of the pie, and enjoyed a generous slice. There’s no doubt about it. Pie is love.

07/25/2013

Where We Come From

I’m often asked about the origins of our unusual name “Desperation Bakehouse.” Stories of our pioneer history have always fascinated me, and I drew partial inspiration from the lore and landscape of California’s Sierra Foothills. The rough-and-ready settlements that emerged here in the mid-19th century depended upon folks willing to test their limits, brave hardships under truly Desperate circumstances – all in the quest to reinvent themselves.
So what’s the connection to the photo posted here?

In the previous post, I touched upon my own family’s immigrant heritage. My father’s family survived the Russian Revolution, only to be let down by the changes to come. Jews had faced discrimination and random acts of brutality under the Tsarist regime, so the ideals that the revolutionaries preached made many Jews hopeful. But by 1923, under the new brutality of the Soviets, my great-grandparents believed it was time to leave. Along with so many Russian Jewish families, the entire clan uprooted itself in the quest to become American. My own grandmother, pregnant with my father, embarked on the long sea voyage, leaving behind her husband – never to see him again. Across the oceans to NY Harbor, to Ohio, and eventually California, they were pioneers of a different generation – demonstrating no less grit and determination than their 19th century forebears.

This lyrical photo, taken a century ago in a Russian photography studio, several years before the Revolution, is extraordinarily moving to me. My grandmother poses with her siblings in a stage-prop boat adrift on an artificial sea. And though these children couldn’t know their fates, or imagine how their little world would soon be upended, their faces reveal a strange knowingness.
Each of us has a rich heritage to share. Let us continue to celebrate who we are, dream about where we want to be, but never forget where we come from.

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